


Nothing Particularly Special

by ightybug



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ightybug/pseuds/ightybug





	Nothing Particularly Special

They stumbled up the stairs, uncharacteristically off-balance and giddy. Lord knows how John was able to convince Sherlock to go to the Yard's Christmas party. He couldn't remember now. That, along with much of the rest of the night, was lost to a pleasant haze of drunkenness, laughter, and Sherlock's stream of consciousness ramblings that mingled together to make him happier than he had any right to feel. 

He tripped on the last stair, falling forward and steadying himself with a handful of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock whirled around with an offended look on his face. Regaining his balance, John gingerly let go, momentarily afraid he had ruined whatever they had shared that evening. Sherlock's mask of disdain shattered quickly, though, replaced by the open delight that had carried them through chilly London streets. His eyes lit up and he broke out in another deep laugh that reverberated through John's whole body. 

Sherlock turned and tumbled into the sitting room, John close behind. The Christmas lights that lined the mantle seemed to twinkle, even though there was nothing particularly special about them. There was nothing particularly special about any of this. Sherlock removed his coat and stoked the fire before settling into his chair. A crumpled, boneless heap that was the most stunningly attractive, impeccably disheveled mess John had ever seen. 

John turned toward the kitchen, feeling emboldened by laughter and too much wine. He decided to press his luck and pulled down the scotch that lingered on their top shelf. He could stand to attach new associations to his taste for scotch; less mournful, more indulgent. It would be absolute folly to let his mind run away with the things he wanted to indulge in right now, he knew. But he couldn’t deny that he’d like to.

He took a deep, steadying breath before crossing the room, caught in the spell cast by firelight flickering over splayed limbs and pink cheeks and tousled curls. As John approached, Sherlock looked up. Without reservation, he silently accepted the scotch on offer and took a sip. 

John still had his wits about him enough to avoid Sherlock's legs that reached across the space between the chairs. He stepped over and settled in to quietly admire the softened edges of the man sitting in front of him. There were accidental brushes, brief moments of contact that ended almost before they could be consciously recognized. It left John wanting to chase that warmth, that fleeting feeling of something more. 

Sherlock sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and sipped his scotch. They were not saying anything. Not verbally. They gazed around each other, glimpses of connection then glancing away. The story of their life together since that very first day. Sherlock’s eyes slipped shut and John finally allowed himself long moments to look.

They came down from the high of the evening in silence, and John felt the familiar resignation, the bittersweet longing for something that was not meant to be. As the fire began to die, he stood and grabbed the blanket from the back of his chair. One, two, three steps and he was there across the floor again, leaning in to lay the blanket across a seemingly sleeping Sherlock. 

The soft sentiment that suffused his body was suddenly replaced by shock as his legs were knocked out from beneath him. He toppled forward, only just alert enough to brace an arm against the back of the chair to avoid slamming his face into Sherlock’s head. And there they were, pressed against one another, Sherlock staring up at him with a mischievous grin. 

John’s surprise turned to anger turned to something else altogether as Sherlock leaned up into a kiss. Soft, tentative lips touched his and, after years of wanting exactly this, John kissed back with the accumulation of every longing look and thwarted advance, every miscommunication and non-verbal declaration of his undying love and affection for this man. 

John watched as Sherlock pulled back and looked up at him. As he bit his bottom lip and brought his hand up to brush across John’s cheek. Whatever he was analyzing in that unfathomable brain of his, John was absolutely certain there was no better gift he had ever received.

Sherlock took a slow breath in. His words came out softly. 

“Merry Christmas, John.”


End file.
